


Code M

by spun_foonerisms



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Mother, Alternate Universe - College/University, Community College, Community College AU, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Reader-Insert, college!Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 19:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12139815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spun_foonerisms/pseuds/spun_foonerisms
Summary: You and Peter Parker have been best friends and neighbors since seventh grade. You've also been in love with him since seventh grade. You're now about to start your second year of community college together. You regularly climb up to Peter's apartment to escape your emotionally abusive mother, but tonight something is different.(A/N: This is a primarily fluffy 1-shot. I don't go majorly deep into the abuse, but as an abuse survivor myself my compass could be a little off. It's not the majority of the fic at all but I still wanted to warn you, be careful! <3)(A/N part 2: Each "--" indicates a switch from your perspective to Peter's. Also, this is The Mood for this one imo https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-nYsM9sTqxo )





	Code M

It wasn’t the first time watching tv with your mother had ended with you crying silently and her storming off to her room. Nor would it be the last, you thought with grim resignation. Tonight’s emotional trigger had been dishes. You agreed to host the weekly D&D session, and as the DM and host, made your party dinner. Your mother had made you promise to finish the dishes this morning, which you felt was absolutely reasonable. Surprisingly so, for her. Today, you’d woken up to a frantic call from your boss begging you to fill a twelve hour shift. You knew you’d be too exhausted to think about dishes when you got back. Your mother had left for work about an hour before you woke up, so you left her a voicemail on her cell to apologize and ask her if she’d be willing to do them for you. You’d hoped watching tv together meant she’d forgiven you. It wasn’t as if you did this often. If you were in a normal household, you figured you’d have talked it out, or something. Maybe you could have been allowed to do the dishes on one of her nights to make up for it. Maybe there were homes where you wouldn’t have had to learn the auditory difference between dishes being washed and dishes being washed _at you_. You wouldn’t know. Regardless, she’d ripped into you like a fresh steak. Again. You decided to text Peter.

Peter Parker. Your best friend since seventh grade. You’d bonded over a shirt so geeky it could’ve had its own 80s coming-of-age movie. It had a venn triagram right in the middle. The top circle was labeled Time Travel, the bottom right was Killer Robots, and the bottom was Space ships. The intersection of time Travel and Killer Robots was labeled The Terminator, Killer Robots and Space Ships was Battlestar Galactica, and the combination of Space Ships and Time Travel was Star Trek. Which, in your mind was a technical oversight, since Star Trek had the Borg and the Borg were by definition Killer Robots. The middle of the triagram was a picture of the T.A.R.D.I.S. Before you outgrew it, you wore that shirt almost every other day. Thirteen-year-old you hadn’t grasped hygiene or shame. The only shirt you wore nearly as frequently was your “Vote Cthulu: Why Choose the Lesser Evil?” shirt. Thirteen-year-old-you was pretty cool. Come to think of it. Anyway. Peter had run up to you on the first day of seventh grade and said, breathlessly, “Holy shit, that’s like, the coolest shirt I’ve ever seen, where did you get it, what’s your name, what grade are you in, and do you, like, wanna get lunch together?” You didn’t hesitate to say yes. Not only did this boy obviously have excellent taste, you uh… didn’t really have anyone else to go with. He had an honest charm about him that drew you in. After you got past the awkward introductions, you threw yourselves into the nerdiest debate you’d had in your life, up to that point. You fought over Artemis Fowl ships, traded emphatic theories about BAD WOLF ( _god, was that arc that long ago_?), discussed anime, and generally were the embarrassing kids everyone has the right to be. It was amazing.

You also found out that you were neighbors. Vertically. Peter told you about how he’d moved into his aunt’s apartment (“ _Wait, you mean the pretty lady who always says hi to me??? That’s your AUNT_?") just this year, though it took a full year after that for him to tell you it was because his parents had died. Since that day though, you’d been glued at the hip. You met Ned in eighth grade the same way ( _who knew a shirt could lead to friendship like that_?) and he slid into your dynamic like he’d been there the whole time. You were a perfect trio. Almost as perfect as Time Travel, Killer Robots, and Space Ships. Almost. You actually assigned code names based on it. Ned was Time Travel (“ _Because holy SHIT you guys, what couldn’t you do with time travel_?”), you were Space Ships (“ _You can’t time travel to another galaxy, dingus._ ”), and Peter was Killer Robots (“ _You’re both missing the point. Robots can like, kill you anywhere in time and/or space. They got tech. Duh_.”). The three of you spent the next five years in the school system going through phases together. The anime phase was a trying one. You each got into different genres of anime. Peter was up his ass about Neon Genesis Evangelion, you were into Lucky Star, and Ned wore a hidden leaf village headband to school. Multiple times. The dark ages over, you all had to face college choices. Ned got into UCLA, the magnificent bastard. He ~~time~~ traveled away to California right after high school for a summer bridge program, leaving you and Peter in New York. You had both decided to attend Guttman Community College. You, despite attending Midtown High, had no desire to pursue lofty educational goals, you’d barely made it through high school. Your plan was a bachelor’s in art/psych and a quiet life. Peter’s choice surprised you, with the endless genius in that boy’s head you’d have thought he would attend somewhere crazy prestigious, even if he was dedicated to being Spider-Man. You told him as much too, about how a hero could be a hero wherever.

Heh. You remembered when you first found out about the spider thing. Peter had thought he was soooooo stealthy but you’d been watching him be his disheveled self for two years and you knew when he changed. You noticed instantly that he stopped tripping over things, and that he started skipping inordinate amounts of school with shitty excuses. He never did know how to tell a good lie. He’d come back with a rainbow of bruises and say “I fell.” He’d compliment Spider-Man when he was on the news, and defend him to extreme extents when others (even jokingly) dissed him. Of course you knew. You waited at first, after all a secret like that is something Peter would want to tell people on his own terms. You got fed up pretty quickly though. You could only hear the Stark Internship excuse so many times before breaking. You’d beat him home one of the days he earned detention for truancy ( _May had gotten used to letting you in_ ) and greeted him in his prototype suit and a shit-eating grin. His face was priceless.

Anyway, back in the present you were about to start your second year at Guttman together. When you pressed Peter about being able to be Spider-Man anywhere, he said there were “Architectural issues, and anyway, New York is my home.” You tried not to show him how happy it made you. You definitely wanted to best for him, even if it meant he left you, but you were still happy that he stayed. Guttman was only a thirty minute bus ride, which you always took together. Neither May nor your mother had asked either of you to move out, which saved so much money in the long run. May was kind, but you knew your mother was only in it for the financial reasons. A small price to pay, you had decided at the time. Your sanity was a small price to pay for running water and a roof over your head. You paid your tuition through savings your parents had collected for you before they split and almost ever dollar you made at your job( _s, plural when necessary_ ). You got through it because of Peter. You’d come crying to him every time, and for all these years he’d been right there. He was a constant you’d never stop being thankful for. He was even there on his bad days. On those days the two of you cried it out together.

 

 **You** : pete I got a code M

 **Sweet-P** : come on up, I just started boiling the kettle. hot chocolate or chamomile? also, princess bride or ella enchanted?

 **You** : I love you so much

 **Sweet-P** : I know ;^)

 **You** : don’t get cocky han solo, I remember when you cosplayed for Halloween

 **Sweet-P** : ówò? I don’t remembweww doing that

 **You** : hot chocolate and Ella Enchanted, see you soon dorkass

 **You** : I’ll do my best to be

 **You** : nyan-n time

 **You** : heheheh

 **You** : :3c

 **Sweet-P** : no good deed huh

 **Sweet-P** : love you too.

 

\--

 

Peter slipped his phone back into his sweatpants pocket and began to rifle through his kitchen cabinets. “May, y/n’s coming up. Code M.”

“Not again, the poor thing. Keep the volume down though? I’m headed to bed.” May called from her room. May was as used to Code M’s as Peter was. After six years of knowing you, there was no way she wouldn’t be. It was sweet, in a melancholy way. Peter found the hot chocolate and pulled some milk from the fridge. He paused.

“Wait, you want tea?” He poured the milk into your favorite mug and put it in the microwave for 1:30.

“No baby, I want Z. Z’s plural. See you in the morning sugar.”

“I already got dunked on by y/n tonight, if I die from bad joke poisoning it’s your fault.”

“Tell it to the afterlife.”

The microwave beeped. Peter swapped out the milk from a bag of popcorn, then stirred in the cocoa powder. He made himself some mint tea. He fed the dvd into the disc player and began to pull out the traditional movie watching blankets. As he worked he replayed your conversation in his head. You’d been saying you loved each other since the middle school cooties wore off, but he was never satisfied. He had always hoped you’d pick up on how serious he was about it, but you hadn’t yet. He at first told himself he had situational hyperhidrosis, compulsive swallowing, sudden-onset arrhythmia. Anything to avoid the truth that he’d fallen for his best friend. No amount of polysyllabic excuses could change how he felt about you. How he’d memorized the way your nose crinkled when you smiled, the way you spoke when you were only barely awake, the way it felt to hold you. It didn’t take a genius to know he was in deep. Once he finished set up, Peter went to wait for you on his bed. As always when you invoked code M, you’d be coming up the fire escape.

 

\--

 

You threw on a sweater Peter had lent you years ago ( _it fit you like a tent at the time_ ) over your plain shirt and leggings. You had long since come past worrying about appearances with him, and the ensemble was comfortable enough to sleep in. You grabbed your getaway bag. It had basic supplies for a one-night stay at Peter’s. Code M meant a sleepover. A break. Well, it meant a lot of things, but it usually happened at night and it usually led to a sleepover. After all, night was when she came back. You creaked open your window with the stealth and efficiency that every abused kid learns. Your mother snored like a machine, but by some ironic twist of fate was a very light sleeper. It was almost funny how she got mad at you for being quiet when her usual issue was you existing perceptibly at all. You being quiet was subverting her authority, or so she told you. On top of that, her authority seemed to be built entirely around being loud. Wouldn’t you only be challenging her authority if you tried to be louder than her? You chose not to point out the inconsistencies. You climbed carefully out of the window, shutting it slowly behind you. Inconsistencies. The worst part was how it always changed.

Yesterday she’d been all smiles at the idea of your friends being over. She gushed about how she never got to see who you spent time with, how she’d pay for the ingredients since she knew you didn’t make much at your job and she knew how hard working was ( _she worked maybe three hours a day tops on a busy week. The rest of the day she spent out, usually with friends_.). She told you not to worry about it, that she was so happy you’d be cooking dinner. She was the reason you couldn’t handle exchanging money outside of a store. Receiving gifts was a risk, because you never knew if you could keep them and you never knew when they’d be held over your head. Lending money wasn’t happening, since you never got it back. Borrowing was a whole realm of neuroses for you, and above all you hated talking about salary. The only way she got by on her menial job at all was that your father paid your way. Alimony, mostly, but she extorted him plenty.

Not that he didn’t deserve it, in your mind. Your father had followed the tech industry out to California, and months after settling into the Golden State he began the proceedings of divorcing your mother. Wise man. Unfortunately, you were born right before it happened, and he didn’t care to fight a custody battle. You were left in New York with a nightmare woman. You used to imagine a world before the divorce, but you stopped the first time your dad visited. The first time had been the last, incidentally. He told you how he’d taken up with someone he met at church right when he got to California, how he didn’t really have a choice, how hard it was to live there. Yeah, real hard. Living in luxury in the heart of Silicon Valley must really take a toll on the soul, or whatever. He was out there paying for someone else’s kids to go to summer camp. He was out there paying for someone else’s bills while his blood daughter was stuck alone, in a shitty apartment that could’ve qualified for a hoarders episode. You couldn’t care less if your mother drained him penniless. He was a wise man in some ways, but it didn’t stop him being an irredeemable asshole to you. Disgust twisted in your stomach. Everything was fucked. Except… except Peter. Peter and Ned were the first people to show you it didn’t have to be this way.

When you met them, they were the first people willing ( _or able, your darker thoughts said_ ) to give a shit about you. Consistently. Their friendship had reminded you of the good things about yourself and helped you weather the storm that was your mother all these years. They helped you to stop being alone. Before them, you’d made other friends, of course, but none of them were Best Friends. None of them had lasted as long or as strong as those two. The friendships you made after them had been… whole. You weren’t looking to fill something anymore.

However, as a human with eyes and half a brain, you’d been in love with Peter for as long as you could remember. Who wouldn’t be? Aside from his unabashed dorkiness – he was the paladin in your party, best you’d ever seen – he was simply _good_. Peter was the kind of rare person who genuinely believes that everyone else is good too, deep down. And when people stood next to him, they believed it too, at least for a little. He never waivered in this belief, despite the evidence he saw firsthand every day. When the world beat him down he came back smiling. You’d seen the world beat him almost to death. He was simple, but he wasn’t stupid. He was just. Just _good_.

When you looked into his eyes you felt a deep warmth permeate every part of you. His voice was heavenly, even if he couldn’t sing to save his life. His wild curls that he hadn’t been able to gel since freshman year of high school reminded you of those paintings of little angels. God, that was cheesy. You’d never told him about that and you never planned to. You’d managed to keep your feelings hidden pretty well so far, you thought. Sure, there were a few times he caught you staring, and certainly some Freudian slips, but he never ran away. He never acted as though anything was off. Until now, anyway. Something about your guard must have slipped recently.

Peter had begun acting nervous and aloof around you. There was an unidentifiable undercurrent every time you got within touching distance, and it was hard to meet his eyes. You figured there was a very limited time left for you to enjoy being with him, and you were determined to enjoy the shit out of every second. If he found out, he found out. If he left, he left. You’d lived before him, you’d live after him. The reassurance sounded hollow, even to yourself. You shook yourself out of your reverie. You’d been standing on the fire escape far too long. You made your way up the stairs.

 

\--

 

Peter waited expectantly on his bed, fingers laced and leg bouncing. Love was overrated. Anything that caused this much distress was overrated. For fuck’s sake, he beat up people who wanted to kill him daily, and he was scared of you. The person he trusted most in the world. Love was fucked up, he decided. There was a sexual joke in there, but he didn’t search for it. He wasn’t feeling all that cocky. When he’d first fallen for you he had prayed it was a hormonal wave, because if it stayed he would have endless chances to ruin everything. He had not-kissed you so many times he could’ve made into the Guiness Book of World Records. “ _Most Kisses Whiffed goes to: Idiot Kid From Queens_.” His leg bounced faster. _Shhhhit_. He could hear you on the fire escape, just standing there. As useful as his heightened senses ( _Spidey-Senses, as you called them_ ) were for crime-fighting and all that, they did very bad things to a fool in love. He could hear when your heart rate sped up, but he had no idea what it meant. Anxiety and love sounded the same under a stethoscope. He was also acutely aware of how close you were ( _or weren’t_ ) to him at any given time. Love had no quantifiable evidence. Love was bullshit.

Maybe you were hesitating because you didn’t want to see him and deal with the uncomfortable atmosphere he no doubt created. Maybe you’d seen through him, like you usually did. This was one of the few times he hoped you couldn’t. He imagined just telling you, but as always, it went bad. He’d run the scenarios. Every time you were disgusted that he took advantage of your friendship to prey on you and every time you walked out of his life. Every time, but… he shook his head slowly. You said you loved him. All the time. “She said she loved you,” he whispered. “She said she loved you,” he repeated, a little louder this time, as if saying the words would cement them as truth in the real world. The rational part of him knew it would probably take a lot to send you packing after six years.

You’d stuck with him through thick and thin. You had handled the news of his parents death with incredible grace. You stayed with him even in the early stages of his vigilante career, when he had so much fear and anger that he lashed out at everyone he loved. You were the one that talked May out of grounding him for being Spider-Man. You were there when he broke down after the first death he _knew_ he was responsible for. The first person he couldn’t save. You were the one who helped him seek therapy after everything with Thanos. Through everything, all the trauma you’d both faced, you’d never left. What you saw in an emotional wreck with a hero-complex and a very niche set of sci-fi/fantasy interests he’d never know. All he could do was hope you kept seeing it. He finally heard you start climbing the steps. As your head came into view he called out, “What’s up, Buttercup?”

“Not much, Buttmunch.” You began to climb through the window. It was the standard reply. Seemed you were still well enough to crack jokes at least. But there was a muted nasal quality to your voice that was off.

“You sick or have you been crying?”

You finished climbing in and struck a pose straight out of Bill and Ted’s excellent adventure. “Doctor said I was sick,” you changed positions dramatically “I said true.” You took off your imaginary sunglasses and dropped your bag on the floor. “No, but I have been crying. You okay to let me cry some more?”

 

\--

 

Peter brought you your cocoa, and between sips and crying fits you told him about your day. You were sitting next to him on his bed, head resting on his chest ( _you had been so mad when he hit puberty, you used to be taller than him_ ). He had one arm around you, hand rubbing your shoulder while the other hand combed through your hair. He whispered quiet strings of reassurance, variations on the theme “ _You’re okay, it’s over, I’m here_.” He was almost chanting. At some point he must nestled his face into your hair, you could feel his lips moving. You never cried openly when in the same apartment as your mother. She jumped on you if you did. You were accused of trying to make her feel guilty, of being selfish, of being whatever insult came most readily to her tongue at that time, but with Peter… he always let you cry. He just listened. And when the sobbing subsided, you would always sync your breathing with the steady rise and fall of his chest, relaxing to the sound of his heartbeat. When he spoke with his full voice again you could feel its vibration in your body. “So, you ready to stare at Anne Hathaway for a couple hours?”

You laughed through the last few tears. “You’re on.”

 

\--

 

You wrapped yourselves together in a traditional blanket cocoon, all legs and hands and fabric and warmth. The popcorn was left on a little side table next to the sofa, forgotten as you mutually reveled in the comfort of each other. Peter could feel your heart beating as if it was pulsing blood through his own veins. Sensitive everything was kind of nice, sometimes. He didn’t want to remember the time he’d been so cut off from you, the time before the bite. Power and responsibility aside, he had become connected to a new sensory world that allowed him to take in every bit of you, like a high-tech camera. Or something. He had never been the best at similes. He couldn’t remember exactly when you first started cuddling to this extent. In high school, you and Ned would come over all the time, with Peter stuck in the middle of you. You and Ned were always touchy, and as he grew more comfortable with the pair of you, Peter grew more touchy too. By sophomore year it was hard to tell where one nerd ended and the other began. After Ned left, it was just you and Peter… for a while you were odd about it, flinching at his touch like he’d burned you. But slowly, you would lean into him more. You’d place a leg over his. You’d lift up his arm and pull it over your shoulders. In time, it was like it had been before, but… different. The difference being, obviously, that he wasn’t madly in love with Ned. A just-friend wouldn’t take so long to cuddle after doing it for years right? He’d learned in his time as Spider-Man that people don’t usually freak about implying something unless there’s some truth to it. He hoped so, in any case. He sighed contentedly. He’d had the day off work today, and even though you came to him in dire circumstances, there was nothing better than unwinding with you in the evening. Nothing felt as good as you. Your smell, his hands at your waist, your little comments throughout the movie, they all felt like they slotted perfectly into his life. Like there were notches in his body and soul carved for you. He missed most of the movie watching you, not that he cared. He’d seen it so many times that he could probably recite it from memory. When it came time for the final song, he ( _reluctantly_ ) untangled himself for you. He had a great idea. He sat you up, gave you a dramatic point on beat, and mimed singing “Don’t go breaking my heaaaaaart” into an imaginary microphone. Your grin widened, and you posed back, whispering

“I couldn’t if I tried!” The rest of the song continued with you dancing, trading lyrics back and forth, trying each time to make the other laugh first. You were almost completely silent, since you both knew May was sleeping, which made the game even harder. Once the credits were through, Peter volunteered to clean up the blankets while you brushed your teeth. “Don’t forget my-”

“Yes, yes, leave out the purple one, your favorite. It’s been six years y/n, I know.” The smile in his voice was obvious, he didn’t care. What if he did do something tonight? What if he told you? He’d dated people in high school (mainly to distract from you), so he knew pretty well how to ask someone out. The problem was that he’d very specifically not asked you out. That was the point. He made his way to his room to settle down. He had time to think before you came back out of the bathroom. He needed time to think.

 

\--

 

In the bathroom you clapped both hands to your mouth to hold in a noise of overwhelmed embarrassment. Holy shit. Peter had been trailing his fingers across your back the whole time and it took a Lot of strength not to make some kind of noise. He had always had gorgeous hands, and after the bite they were also incredibly strong, which was probably why your heart raced when he touched you lightly. His touch was delicate with the hint of bruising strength beneath it; just the thought was enough to make you bite your lip. The excitement was sullied by the disgust you were sure he’d feel if he knew. “ _I thought you were my friend,” he’d say “how could you think of me like that? I trusted you_!” Shit, brain-Peter, you’re right. After a couple sobering breaths and a long wait for your cheeks to un-redden, you brushed your teeth and walked out. You lingered for a few moments in the hallway, pausing to fully compose yourself before going in.

“So,” started Peter as you entered his room “what should we do now? I mean, realistically we’re not gonna sleep until at least 1am, so like?” He shrugged.

“Uh,” you were bad at being put on the spot like this “… go fish?”

“You can’t ‘go fish’ a question, nerd.”

“It worked didn’t it?”

“Uhgghghhghhhhh.” Peter flopped back on his bed dramatically. You sat next to his prone body and gave him a half-hearted punch.

“Stop being a baby, we’ll figure something out.” After a moment, you continued, “In all seriousness, I’m ready to kick your ass in go fish.” Peter turned his head toward you and raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think my ego could take it.”

“Spoken like a coward”

“Spoken like a girl whose main skill is go fish.” You put your hand to your mouth in mock posh astonishment, and quickly dropped it to tickle the shit out of Peter. You knew all his weak spots instinctively at this point. Between barely restrained laughs and whispered “ _May is sleeping_!”’s he tried to get you back. You knew he was going easy on you because he didn’t use his absurd strength to overpower you. He knew your weaknesses as well as you knew his, and he had superhuman abilities to help him, but he would never do that. He had never once used his superpowers on you without your consent. He was so… _good_. You’d never find a better word to describe it, he was the walking embodiment of the concept. Watching him felt like drinking warm cocoa and hugging a loved one and lying in the sun on a lazy day all at once. The lines around his warm eyes were beautiful, genuine. The way the laughter traveled through his whole body was captivating. It was one of the many moments where your mind and body stopped all operations and resonated with the thought “ _I love you_.”

Peter was suddenly stock still. “What?” What? Oh. Oh no. No no no. No. Ohhhhhh _shit_. You whipped your hands away from his body and looked away from his face. Your stupid mouth had betrayed you. Six years of hard-earned nonchalance down the drain because of one fatigued, sleep-deprived night. You’d ruined it. It had been that easy. It was that quick. It was over. Unless… unless you could save this. You could play this off. You tried to fight down the oncoming blush and more ominous anxiety.

“We’ve been saying it for years, I don’t know what that reaction’s about, Parker.”

“It’s just” he ran a hand through his unruly curls “you’ve never said it like _that_.” _Of course not, Peter_ , you thought, _that was to avoid this exact situation_.

“Said it like what?” Peter was a bad liar, but good at spotting dishonesty in others. You hoped he’d have mercy or magically forget how to read you. Neither was likely.

“Like you…” you swallowed, hard. He paused. He was still lying back on his bed, in your periphery you saw one of his hands fiddling with his lower lip. _Any_ silence was longer than you could handle at this point. You forced yourself to speak.

“Like what, Peter?” You glanced back at his face and found him staring. His eyes held you there. He could see through you.

“Like you wanted to kiss me.” _Fuck_. You cursed yourself internally. Congrats on ruining that friendship. You could’ve grown old together. It would’ve been fine if you hadn’t done this. Great work. Stellar. Though there was very little room left for hope, you still found some. Now that you were looking at him, you could see Peter’s face _wasn’t_ a contorted rictus of disgust, but… there weren’t anything else readable about it. The last time you’d seen his face so emotionless like that was when he was literally forced to kill someone. You weren’t able to break eye contact.

“I can, like, go home, if you want. If I made you uncomfortable.” You felt like you were watching someone else puppet you, like you were in another universe, disconnected from all this. You screamed in your mind, you screamed at your legs to get up, get your stuff, go down the fire escape. You screamed at yourself to go into hiding. “Sorry,” was the only thing you could think to say. You didn’t move.

“Can you tell me if you do? Y’know, wanna,” he finally flicked his eyes away, off into the middle distance in front of him. You almost saw an expression break through. He ran his hand through his hair again “wanna kiss me.” You sighed. You never could lie to him, not really.

“I do. God, I really, really do. Which is why I should leave. I know, it’s creepy. I shouldn’t have asked you to have me over… I’m sorry.” The tears were brimming. Great, on top of all this you were going to cry. Tonight was supposed to be an escape from all the bad things, and you’d ruined it. You’d ruined it with your best friend. You’d ruined it with Peter. He stood up, presumably to help you pack your things and go. Ha. Ever the gentleman, even in the face of this whole… debacle.

“Then,” he offered his hand to you “why don’t you?” It was your turn to freeze. You whipped your head up and met his eyes.

“What?” Peter’s face broke into a smile.

“I think you heard me, y/n.” You took his hand and he guided you upwards. He placed your arms behind his neck and wrapped his hands around your waist. Where he touched it felt electric. “Why don’t you,” he leaned in, resting his forehead on yours “kiss me?”

“You… you sure?” He laughed, and raised his eyebrows.

“What do you think? Are you going to or do I have to?” You ~~loved~~ hated it when he got cocky. You kissed him. Like Peter, you’d done your fair share of dating in high school. There were a lot of feelings you couldn’t really act out with the one you wanted to, so… You knew it wasn't fair to those you dated, and you always apologized when you broke up with them. Not that it made it any better. Anyway. With dating, you’d gained plenty of experience in uh... bedroom matters? God, you sounded like an old lady. It meant that you knew, objectively, that kissing Peter was incredible. When your lips touched his, your whole body lit up like a Christmas tree. You felt _alive_. You’d fantasized about this moment since you had hormones for the glands that made you fantasize, and here it was. 3D. Up close and personal. He pulled away first, long before you had your fill of him. “There, was that so hard?” he asked. You laughed breathlessly.

“How long have you…?”

“How long have I wanted to kiss you too? How long have I loved you?” You nodded, mind laden with fuzzy bliss. He brought his hand to your face, rubbing his thumb back and forth across your cheek. “Since we met, you massive nerd.” You tried to process this through your love-addled brain.

“But you dated-”

“And you didn’t? God, I thought you’d never even dream of being with me. I thought I was ‘Peter Parker, Platonic Playmate’ for life.” He tilted his head. “Not that I would’ve minded being with you for life, even if I never had the chance to kiss you.” He kissed your forehead. “I mean, what is love for, right? If I’m not there with you no matter what?” You thumped your head on his chest, and pulled your arms down to circle them round his back. You wanted to be closer, closer, as close as possible. You had a gut feeling that no matter how closer you were you’d want to be more closer. More closer? Closerer? Whatever. 

“I was terrified you’d never want to see me again if you thought I…” The rumble of his relieved laughter resonated in your chest.

“So was I!”

“Y’know, for being Young Genii™ we’re a pair of idiots.” ( _You said the ™ out loud, though Peter, being himself, would definitely have guessed it from the tone_.) Peter kissed the top of your head.

“No idiot I’d rather be with.”

“I know.”

“Shut up Han Solo.”

“… Ned’s gonna flip his shit.”


End file.
